Captain Darkstrom of the Daemon. Five years of unblemished service. Not one unsuccessful mission on her record. One of the best Captains in the Fleet, and headed for higher things. And then one of her cousins was Outlawed for keeping the wrong sort of company, and Eileen Darkstrom was politely reminded that regulations clearly stated no relative of an Outlaw could be allowed to command a starship. They told her she would have to resign her commission, or face being cashiered.
At first, she couldn’t believe they meant it. Surely the regulation couldn’t apply to someone like her, with her record. When she finally realised they did mean it, despite all she’d done for the Empire, Darkstrom took her ship and her crew out into the stars, and turned pirate. She did well enough for a year or two, but took little pleasure in it. She had no taste for the endless blood and destruction. Eventually she made one raid too many, and the Empire was waiting for her. The Daemon went down, and she had to run for her life in a battered ship’s pinnace. Some time later, having fled from ship to ship and planet to planet, she ended up on Mistworld and started a new life, first as a blacksmith and then also as a Councillor. Sometimes she wondered which of the two positions was the most important. Darkstrom shook her head suddenly. Things hadn’t been all bad since she came to Mistworld. She had her freedom, something she’d never known in the Empire, and more importantly, she’d met and fallen in love with Count Stefan Bloodhawk. She squeezed his hand gently, and smiled as he squeezed it back.
The corridors slowly filled with people as Darkstrom and the Bloodhawk made their way deeper into the ship. Technicians had broken into the corridor walls and were checking through the systems to see what was worth salvaging. Darkstrom was impressed by how well the Darkwind had stood up to its crash-landing. According to the reports she’d seen, the stern was cracked open and the lower decks were nothing more than a mass of crumpled metal, but here amidships everything seemed more or less intact. Presumably the packed snow had absorbed some of the impact. Certainly the technicians seemed busy enough. Darkstrom moved casually among them, asking questions about the work, the technology; getting the feel of things. Most of the technicians relaxed a little once they realised she talked their language, and the Bloodhawk was careful to keep well in the background. He could be rather intimidating in situations like this, and he knew it.
On the whole, the men seemed happy enough with the way things were going. There were the usual complaints about living conditions, but nothing serious. They understood the realities of life out here on the plateau. Slowly, carefully, Darkstrom began to drop a few questions about the missing technology. Most of the men didn’t know what she meant, or claimed not to, but there were enough grim faces and sudden silences for her to be sure that some of them knew more than they were telling. Darkstrom took a few of these to one side and pressed them for details, using all her charm and her Councillor’s influence. And finally somebody whispered a name. Joshua Crane.
“There’s nothing definite on him,” Darkstrom said thoughtfully to the Bloodhawk, as the two of them made their way deeper into the heart of the ship. “But he’s our best bet. He’s been in the right place at the right time just a little too often. From the sound of it, this operation’s fairly small-scale; it could be just a one-man job at this end.”
“It’s the man at the other end I want,” said the Bloodhawk. “The man who gives the orders. I detest tech runners. When bloodsuckers like Vertue start hoarding machinery for themselves, it brings the whole of Mistport that much closer to collapse.”
“Just remember we want this Joshua Crane alive,” said Darkstrom, and smiled as the Bloodhawk reluctantly took his hand away from his sword hilt. “A dead technician might stop the looting for now, but without the name of his master, it’ll only start up again later. I hope it does turn out to be Leon Vertue. I think I’d enjoy watching him hang. There’s hardly a family in Mistport that hasn’t lost someone to his damned bodysnatchers.”
“He’ll get what’s coming to him,” said the Bloodhawk.
Darkstrom smiled in spite of herself. The Bloodhawk was always so sure of himself.
The overhead lights grew fewer and far between as the two of them headed down to the main Engineering Bays. Few of the between-deck elevators were working, and Darkstrom had to rely on her old memories of the ladders and walkways. She was surprised at how much of the ship’s layout she still remembered after all the years, but even so, she had to stop every now and again to make sure she was on the right track. The Darkwind was the same class and type of ship as her Daemon, but she’d rarely had occasion to visit her own Engineering Bays in person. It was on one of her brief stops to get her bearings that she first got the feeling she was being watched. A few corridors and several sharp turns later, she was sure of it. She glanced at the Bloodhawk to see if he’d noticed it too, and almost smiled as she saw his hand was near his sword hilt again. He met her eyes and nodded slightly. They stopped at the next intersection and looked casually about them, as though checking their route.
“He’s behind us,” said the Bloodhawk quietly, his lips barely moving. “About seven o’clock.”
“Got him,” said Darkstrom softly. “Do you think he’s got a gun?”
“No. If he had, he’d have used it by now. I think it would be best if we split up. I’ll go back the way we carne, as though I’m heading back to the main section. Then, when he goes after you, I’ll circle round and take him from behind.”
“Sounds fine to me.”
“You don’t mind being used as bait?”
“Stefan, I can take care of myself in a fight. I wear a sword, and I know how to use it. You really must stop worrying about me. Now, on your way. And remember, we want him alive.”
“I’ll remember.”
He turned and walked unhurriedly back down the corridor, while Darkstrom strode off towards Engineering. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled uncomfortably, and she was hard pressed to keep her hand away from her sword. She could feel the unseen watcher’s presence. He was very close now. She was tempted to stop and look around, but she didn’t. Her instincts told her he was there, and they’d never played her false before. She kept her hand away from the sword on her hip, and tried hard to look unconcerned. And yet despite all her instincts and anticipation, the arm that snaked suddenly round her throat caught her completely by surprise. She started to struggle, and then stopped as her attacker held up a vicious barbed dirk before her eyes.
“Shout out and I’ll kill you,” rasped a quiet voice beside her ear. “Who are you?”
“I’m Councillor Darkstrom.”
“You picked the wrong place to go looking for trouble, Councillor,” said the quiet voice. “And you really shouldn’t have sent your friend away.”
“He’ll be back.”
“Not in time.”
“Are you Joshua Crane?”
There was a slight pause. “You just said the wrong thing, Councillor. Anything else, and I might have let you go, but now you know my name.… “
“I’m not the only one who knows.”
“Then I’ll just have to take care of your friend as well. It’s too late now for the Council to send anybody else. The last consignment’s already gone, and I’ll be following it as soon as I’ve taken care of this last bit of business. There’s a lot of money waiting for me in Mistport, and neither you nor anyone else is going to stop me.”
“You can’t kill a Councillor and get away with it.” Darkstrom kept her voice calm and even, trying hard to sound confident. Crane just laughed.
“You’d be surprised what you can get away with, Councillor. You really shouldn’t have let your friend go. Now I don’t have to hurry this. I can have a little… fun, first. Fun for me, that is. I don’t think you’re going to enjoy it much, Councillor.”
The dirk gleamed dully in the dim light as Crane turned it slowly back and forth. The barbed steel edge moved gradually closer to Darkstrom’s face, and she tried to pull her head away. Crane tightened his
stranglehold, and she couldn’t move at all. The point of the dirk bit into her face, just above the right cheekbone, and a thin stream of blood rilled down her face. Crane slowly pulled the dirk down, lengthening the cut he’d made. Even above the pain, Darkstrom could feel the faint tug of her flesh parting under the keen edge, and the fresh blood that dribbled down her face. She groaned once, and then slammed her elbow back into Crane’s ribs. Twelve years as a blacksmith had given Darkstrom a good set of muscles, and Crane grunted loudly as the sudden blow drove the air from his lungs. The dirk stopped moving, and Darkstrom back-elbowed him again, putting all her strength into it. Crane’s stranglehold loosened. She stamped down hard on his left instep, and felt a bone crack under her boot. The dirk fell away from her face as Crane moaned with pain, and she threw herself forward, out of his reach. She hit the floor rolling and was quickly back on her feet, reaching for her sword. And then she stopped, and watched grimly as Crane fell heavily to the floor, clutching with desperate hands at the great crimson wound in his neck. Blood streamed through his fingers as he lay twitching on the floor, and then his hands fell away from his neck, and he lay still. After a moment, he stopped breathing. The Bloodhawk stepped out of the shadows, stared briefly at the unmoving body, and nodded, satisfied. He set about cleaning his sword with a piece of cloth. Darkstrom shook her head angrily.
“Dammit, Stefan, we wanted him alive!”
“I couldn’t risk it. He might have killed you.”
“I could have handled him.”
“Perhaps. But he had steel in his hand and you didn’t, and I didn’t like the odds. There’s blood on your face. Use this.”
Darkstrom scowled at him, and then took the cloth he was holding out to her. She knew a peace offering when she saw one. She pressed the cloth to her face and dabbed gingerly at the narrow cut. It wasn’t a bad cut, as cuts go.
“Are you all right, my dear?”
“I’m fine, Stefan. It’s only a scratch.”
“I was worried about you.”
“Yes. I know. Let’s get out of here. We can send some men back to clean up this mess.”
“Did Crane mention any names to you; like Leon Vertue?”
“No. Just that there was money waiting for him in Mistport.”
The Bloodhawk frowned thoughtfully. “Without a name, I don’t think we can justify turning back. Our mission to restore communications with the city is too important.”
“You’re right, unfortunately. But it would have been nice to finally nail Leon Vertue.”
“Yes,” said the Bloodhawk, as he guided her back down the dimly lit steel corridor. “But don’t worry, my dear; I promise you, he’ll get what’s coming to him.”
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
Mary
NIGHT lay heavily over Mistport, and the full moon shone dimly through the thick mists that curled across the landing pads. Jamie Royal huddled inside his threadbare grey cloak and peered about him from the safety of the perimeter shadows. The landing field was deserted, and even the marker torches were burning low. He pulled a map from inside his cloak and studied it carefully by the light of a pencil torch. The small spot of light danced across the unsteady map as his hands shook violently from the freezing cold. Jamie swore under his breath, and fought to keep his hands still. The night was cold, and getting colder. Every breath seared his lungs, and he couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering. He put the cold out of his mind as best he could, and concentrated on the map. The sooner he was finished with this, the quicker he could get out of the killing cold. Only a fool or a madman would linger out in the open during Mistport’s night. Only the foolish, the mad… and the desperate. Jamie scowled, and studied his map.
The starport perimeter was dotted with pressure fields and proximity mines, but the safe paths through them seemed straightforward enough. Jamie put away his torch, and then carefully refolded the map and tucked it into his pocket. He’d already spent most of the evening memorizing the safe routes, but he liked to be sure. He glowered into the swirling mists and swore to himself that this was the last job he’d do for Leon Vertue, threats or no threats. He’d thought his job was over once he’d delivered that damned crystal to the Hadenman, but Vertue had insisted on this one last service. Blackjack had stood silently beside the doctor, smiling coldly, waiting for Jamie to try and refuse. Jamie wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
But I’ll get you for this, thought Jamie fiercely. I’ll make you both pay for what you’ve done to me, and to Madelaine. My sweet Madelaine…
He smiled sourly, and shook his head. He was going to have enough trouble getting out of this with his skin intact as it was, without hatching wild schemes to get back at Vertue and Blackjack. Revenge would have to wait for another time, assuming he ever came up with a plan worth a damn. Jamie glanced about him, listening carefully. No shadows moved in the mists, and no sounds disturbed the silence. According to his information, the Watch patrolled the perimeter at half-hour intervals. Plenty of time to sneak through the port defences and hide himself in the mists. Assuming nothing went wrong. He took a deep breath, and moved cautiously forward out onto the landing field.
The proximity mines were easy enough to spot, now that he knew what he was looking for, but the pressure fields were undetectable to the naked eye. The first you knew about tripping one was when the Watchmen came charging out of nowhere to grab you. Jamie gritted his teeth and plunged on into the mists. Either the map was right, or it wasn’t, and if it wasn’t, it was too late to worry about it now. The smugglers’ ships loomed out of the fog to either side of him, long silver needles glowing ruddy from the flickering marker torches. The other pads were bare and empty, and Jamie felt horribly exposed and vulnerable as he padded silently through the mists. His imagination filled the endless grey haze with watching eyes and armed guards, and he could feel his heart hammering wildly in his chest. He stumbled to a halt as a huge dark shape formed suddenly out of the mists, and then he relaxed a little as he recognised the hull of the Balefire. He was in the right place. He padded quickly over to the reception area compound, and hid himself in the shadows of the outer wall.
He crouched on his haunches in the comforting gloom, and waited impatiently for his breathing to slow and his heartbeat to return to normal. I’d make a lousy spy, he thought ruefully. He shook his head and turned his attention to the straggling line of refugees emerging from the Balefire’s main airlock. They moved slowly, listlessly, across the landing pad, dressed in silks and fineries totally unsuitable for the bitter cold of a Mistport night, but none of them seemed to notice, or even care. Their faces were blank and their eyes were empty, and none of them looked back at the ship they were leaving. Lost and alone, hoping against hope, they came to Mistport as so many had before. Because there was nowhere else.
Jamie hugged himself fiercely inside his cloak, and straightening up, he stamped his feet hard to try and drive out the cold. He’d lost all feeling in his feet and hands despite his boots and gloves, and frost was forming in his hair and crackling on his face. Vertue or no Vertue, he couldn’t stand this cold for long. If he couldn’t find the refugee he was looking for quickly, he’d have to leave and take his chances with the damned mercenary. He snapped alert as he heard footsteps nearby. He glanced quickly round, and winced as he saw John Silver standing in the doorway of the reception compound. What the hell was the duty esper doing here? Jamie shrank back against the wall, trusting to the shadows to hide him. His mental shield was as tight as he could make it, and as far as Silver’s esp was concerned, he should be invisible.
Silver moved away from the door, hesitated, and then walked slowly towards Jamie. The duty esper was frowning, but his attention seemed fixed wholly on the refugees. Jamie reached down and carefully eased the dirk out of his boot. The slender knife seemed heavy in his hand. He didn’t want to kill Silver, but he couldn’t afford to be caught. They hanged traitors in Mistport. Silver drew steadily nearer. Jamie pulled back his arm for the kil
ling thrust, and waited for the duty esper to come in range. And then someone called from inside the compound, and Silver stopped and looked back. Jamie froze in position, hardly daring to breath. Silver turned and walked back into the compound. Jamie relaxed, letting his breath out in a great sigh of relief. He put away his knife, shaking all over with the relief from tension. The sooner this job was over, the better; it wasn’t doing his nerves any good at all.
He raised his esp and cautiously probed inside the reception compound, careful to keep his own mind shielded. It seemed he’d arrived just in time; the first few refugees were just being processed. Jamie frowned. There were two other espers apart from Silver, and they seemed to be scanning the new arrivals very thoroughly, as though searching for something. He couldn’t tell exactly what they were up to without dropping his shields and alerting the other espers to his presence, but he could guess. They were looking for the same refugee he’d been sent to find. Jamie grinned. Unfortunately for them, he was there to make sure they never got the chance to find her. He chose his moment carefully, and then delicately mindprobed the refugees in the compound. There were only four, and Jamie quickly dismissed them. Vertue had said she wouldn’t be in the first few, and it looked like he was right. Jamie turned his esp on the refugees trudging slowly out of the mists, and probed them one by one as they approached the reception area. It was a long and wearying task, but Jamie stuck to it. He soon lost count of the refugees as they passed, but he didn’t really give a damn. It was starting to look like he was wasting his time, and in a way he rather hoped he was. Treachery paid well enough, but his heart wasn’t in it. He sighed quietly. There were still debts to be paid.…
Mistworld (Deathstalker Prelude) Page 11
